Ah, the magic of page 69. In my new novel, The Bird House, a school genealogy project unlocks a series of connected family secrets between grandmother and granddaughter. And on page 69, Ann Harris, the 70-year-old narrator, learns that her 8 year-old granddaughter, Ellie, has decided to make “bird houses” the theme of her class project.

Here is Ann’s response:

“But a bird house is such a ... I don’t know ... such a small thing. In the scheme of a family and a heritage and a ... legacy.”

I tasted tears in my throat. Were they caused by her choice, or my own fumbling words? She knew nothing, so why did it matter, why did it hurt so much?

I breathed in sharply, willing it away. I was becoming a dreaded thing: a silly, sentimental, forgetful old woman.

The main secret alluded to, the emotional heft moves into focus, and the title is starting to make sense. A reader’s dream, all on one page.